Hors saison (Off Season), 1999

At first glance, “Hors saison” (from the 1999 album of the same name) seems to be a specific description of the “off-season” setting of a seaside holiday resort, perhaps a place like Île de Ré off the western coast of France. The somber melody carried by piano and a bit of reflection, though, make its implications appear more inclusive. The depiction of the in-the-moment present scene of a deserted resort invites one to imagine the lonely contrast with yesterday’s buzzy seasonal activity as well as other analogous scenes. The descriptions activate all the senses of sight, sound, smell. Most important, the apparently specific setting of an off-season holiday resort evokes other more widely shared human experiences that elicit similar feelings: the hours of quiet after guests depart a family reunion; the emptiness of a concert hall after the audience has left and doors have closed; the solitude after children leave home to pursue their own lives; the death of a spouse; or the retirement from an active career for life's final season. Such transitional experiences evoke a similar range of contradictory sensations that, in combination, generate melancholia: emptiness, joy, satisfaction, loneliness, peace, quiet. The genius of art is to reveal "a world in a grain of sand" (William Blake).

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C'est le silence
qui se remarque le plus
Les volets roulants tous descendus
De l'herbe ancienne
dans les bacs à fleurs
sur les balcons
On doit être hors-saison

La mer quand même
dans ses rouleaux continue
Son même thème,
sa chanson vide et têtue
Pour quelques ombres perdues
sous des capuchons
On doit être hors-saison

Le vent transperce
ces trop longues avenues
Quelqu'un cherche
une adresse inconnue
Et le courrier déborde
au seuil des pavillons
On doit être hors-saison

Une ville se fâne
dans les brouillards salés
La colère océane est trop près
Les tourments la condamnent
Aux écrans de fumée
Personne ne s'éloigne du quai

On pourrait tout prendre
les murs, les jardins, les rues
On pourrait mettre
aux boîtes aux lettres nos prénoms dessus
Ou bien peut-être un jour,
les gens reviendront
On doit être hors-saison

La mer quand même
dans ses rouleaux continue
Son même thème,
sa chanson vide "où es-tu"
Tout mon courrier déborde
au seuil de ton pavillon
On doit être hors-saison

Une ville se fâne
dans les brouillards salés,
La colère océane est trop près
Les tourments la condamnent
Aux écrans de fumée,
Personne ne s'éloigne du quai

It's the silence
that's most noticeable
The rolling blinds all down
Old weed
in the flowers pots
on the balconies
It must be off-season

Still the sea,
in its rollers, carries on
Its same theme
its hollow and stubborn song
For a few shadows lost
under hoods
It must be off-season

The wind pierces
these long avenues
Someone's looking for
an unknown address
And the mail is overflows
on the doorsteps
It must be off-season

A city withers
in the salty fogs
The oceanic wrath is too close,
The torments condemn it
To screens of smoke
And no one leaves the quay

We could take everything
the walls, the gardens, the streets
We could write
our first names on the mailboxes
Or maybe one day
people will come back
It must be off-season

Still the sea,
in its rollers, carries on
Its same theme
its hollow song "where are you?"
All of my mail overflows
on your doorsteps
It must be off-season

A city withers
in the salty fogs
The oceanic wrath is too close,
The torments condemn it
To screens of smoke
No one leaves the quay

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